


Things That Go Bump in the Night (and 7 till 12 at weekends)

by HoopyFrood



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Comfort, First Meetings, Flirting, Gen, Haunted Houses, M/M, Meet-Cute, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-01
Updated: 2017-11-01
Packaged: 2019-01-27 18:43:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12588212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HoopyFrood/pseuds/HoopyFrood
Summary: Shane works at a Haunted House. Ryan is Ryan. Things go about as well as you'd imagine.





	Things That Go Bump in the Night (and 7 till 12 at weekends)

In all the time he’s been working at Unsolved - LA’s #1 haunted house attraction as voted for by Scream Magazine five years running - Shane Madej has never needed, nor wanted, to break character. 

He’s kind of an anomaly in that respect, what with every other team member at some point having had to stop mid-demonic possession or gruesome murder to deal with a situation beyond their control. Only last week Sara had to help a woman give birth right in the middle of the outdoor maze after the ambulance they called to come pick her up got lost not once, but _twice_ on their way here.

Obviously, most situations that warrant a character break aren’t so dramatic; twisted ankles that need ice, escorting out troublemakers, confiscating food and drink that has been brought in despite the numerous signs saying not to. Regardless, Shane’s managed to avoid them all and along the way become a sort of living urban legend among new recruits.

As far as _wanting_ to break character goes… Well, who would _want_ to? Scaring people is the best. Nothing beats seeing real, palpable fear blossom across someone’s face, especially when it’s completely irrational. If anything proves humans are naturally masochistic it’s the existence of haunted houses. No, not even the most tearful, blubbery mess of a person has ever made Shane want to turn on all the lights and console them with hugs. They come to be frightened and by God he _will_ frighten them.

It’s Friday night and Shane finds himself scheduled in on Creeper Duty. Dubbed as such by Keith after Unsolved’s last major refurbishment, what Creeper Duty entails is hiding away in the building’s spacious wall cavities and sliding away small, eye sized panels to peer out at the customers. Chasing people with fake chainsaws through darkened hallways is easy, but being able to instil within someone that strange, uncomfortable feeling of being watched really adds another layer of terror. 

It also means you can tailor a scare to a specific person or group. If someone’s a little jumpy, a few extra screams or sudden thumps to the wall may take them from vaguely uneasy to scared stiff. If they seem queasy at the sight of gore, then he can radio for Garrett and have him burst in with his guts spilling grotesquely from his abdomen. 

In all honesty, Creeper Duty is not his most favourite part of the job. He prefers a more hand’s on, up close and personal sort of approach where you can see them trembling, hear their quickened breath, _feel_ the pound of their feet reverberate through the floor. But hey, someone has to do it.

Shane’s half an hour into his shift and taking a casual sip of his coffee when a solitary customer lurches into the morgue.

Great, a solo. He _hates_ solos. Cocky guys and girls who think they can take on house alone, taunting and squaring up to the actors as they complain about how crappy the props and effects look in loud, obnoxious voices. They’re always such _assholes_.

Admittedly, this guy doesn’t fit the usual drunken frat boy stereotype that tends to venture in on their own. He has one of the flashlights they hand out to every customer clutched tightly to his chest, the light illuminating the dips and curves of his face in a way reminiscent of someone about to tell a scary story around a crackling camp fire. Every creak and bump has him swivelling in place, desperately searching for whatever ghost or ghoul may be causing the noise. His eyes are so wide Shane can see their whites even from where he’s hidden.

Oh, this is going to be _fun_.

Grinning to himself, Shane gives the wall he’s behind three dull thumps with a closed fist.

He sees the man go rigid, spine snapping uncomfortably straight. “Hello?” he asks the room, his voice probably an octave higher than it usually is. “Is anyone here?”

What does he think this is, a séance? Of course there’s someone here with him, that’s the whole _point_.

Clearing his throat, Shane unleashes a guttural groan that is neither the starved rumble of the undead nor a cryptid's beastly growl, but instead some weird amalgamation of the two. It's a personal favourite of his.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit,” the man whispers over and over to himself like a mantra, still rooted to the spot.

Why isn’t he just moving on? The sooner he goes to the next room, the sooner it will be over. 

Maybe he isn’t actually alone and instead just waiting for his friends to catch up. It’s easy to end up separated after leaving the operating theatre section, what with all the secret rooms hidden away down long, dark corridors that customers are free to investigate at their own pace.

Unclipping the walkie-talkie from his belt, he holds down the PTT button and brings the device up to his lips. “Jen?” He whispers into the static.

“What’s up?” Comes the chipper voice of their ticket booth operator.

“We got any solos in at the minute?”

“Hang on.” He hears her flicking through the receipt book to the last handful of tickets sold. “Two couples, a group of five aaaand, yep, one solo. A guy if I remember correctly.” The couples and group had already passed through fifteen minutes earlier, which means he was right, this guy _is_ here on his own. “He causing you trouble?”

“No, no, just wondering is all. Thanks.”

It’s not often Shane gets to mess with a genuinely scared solo.

And it doesn’t hurt that the guy’s almost depressingly attractive, either.

Slowly creeping along the cavity he’s hiding inside, he gently unlatches the nearest door and slips out into the frigid dark of the morgue.

He moves silently across the sticky linoleum, edging around bloodied autopsy instruments and balled up wads of gauze until he’s directly behind his unsuspecting victim. This close, he realises that even with the guy’s perfectly coiffed hair giving him an extra inch or so in height, he’s still shorter than Shane by quite a bit. It’s… hell, it’s a little disarming, is what it is, and a traitorous part of him suddenly wants to just pat the poor bastard on the head and send him on his way.

Thankfully, it’s a very, _very_ small part. He has a reputation to uphold, after all.

Slowly raising a hand until it’s level with the guy’s ears, Shane mentally counts down from five before sharply bringing it down against a warm, solid shoulder.

With an unholy shriek, he spins around and blindly shoves Shane in the chest. There’s not much force behind it, he only has to take a single step back to accommodate for the sudden lack of balance, but Shane still automatically snatches a flailing arm out of the air to steady himself.

Unfortunately, he must have thought it was an attempt to keep him from running away because in his haste to pull out of Shane’s hold, he stumbles into a metal trolley piled high with emesis basins. Fake blood and organs spill over the sides in a tidal wave of gore and he desperately throws out his hands to grip onto something, dropping his flashlight in the ensuing chaos. The loud clatter of it hitting the floor has him jump and flatten himself back against the wall of body refrigerators, colourful curses spilling from his lips. Then, realising he’s effectively backed himself into a corner, he proceeds to slide down into a huddle, arms over his head in a weak attempt to protect himself.

All in all, it is perhaps the most utterly ridiculous yet at the same time deeply _satisfying_ reaction Shane has ever witnessed during his time at Unsolved.

After a moment or two of deafening silence, he slowly lowers his arms to peer fearfully up at Shane.

“Well that was awfully dramatic,” Shane says before he can stop himself. 

Ah, shit. 

He sighs and runs a hand through his hair in annoyance. After all these years, _this_ is what gets him to break? A hot guy hyperventilating at his feet? Shame on you Shane Madej, shame on you.

“Not,” the man begins shakily before taking a big gulp of air, “not cool, man.”

Shane crouches down so they’re level and eyes the light sheen of sweat beading along his hair line with concern. He then drags his gaze lower to where the skin peeking out from between the stylish rips in his jeans is slightly grazed and beginning to bruise, as if he’d taken a tumble on his way here, falling hard on his knees. “You don’t look so good,” he states.

“No shit, genius. I think I’m dying,” he says as he presses a hand over his heart, head tilted back against the cool metal behind him. Shane finds himself momentarily mesmerised by the shallow bob of his Adam’s apple, the skin pulled taut by the awkward angle.

After a few more steadying breaths, the guy lets his butt fully hit the floor, legs splaying out haphazardly in front of him like a puppet that has had its strings cut.

Satisfied he’s not about to die _just_ yet, Shane straightens back up go retrieve the flashlight from under a nearby cadaver gurney. The light had gone out entirely when it hit the floor so after fishing it out he thumps it into the palm of his hand a few times to try and jolt it back into life. It flickers briefly, the once bright yellow now a dull orange, but then dies again for good.

“I’m…” a shaky voice pipes up. “I’m not going to get in trouble, am I?”

Shane looks back over to the customer. He has his hands fisted tightly against his grazed knees, knuckles a patchy white from the strain.

“It’s only a flashlight, man. We’ve got boxes full of ‘em in storage.”

“No, I mean, I pushed you. Isn’t that, like, against the rules? No touching the actors? Shit. I’m so sorry, dude. It’s just, I was already on edge, then I feel a goddamn _hand_ of all things on my shoulder and—”

Shane lets him ramble on for a minute, secretly charmed by the endless spew of word vomit, before reaching for his walkie-talkie once again.

“Jen?”

The man shuts his mouth with an audible click and looks away in embarrassment.

“Seriously, Shane?” Jen complains. “Are you actually doing _any_ work tonight?”

“I’m not feeling too well, can you get someone to fill in for me for the next half an hour or so?”

Her tone immediately shifts from exasperation to concern. “Are you okay?”

“Just feeling a little woozy. I’m going to get a drink, sit down for a bit, and see if it passes.”

“Okay, I’ll send Zach up. Take it easy.”

With temporary cover taken care of, Shane extends his hand down to the guy spread out at his feet. He’s already broken his own number one rule tonight, he may as well cross off the _company’s_ of not inviting anyone backstage unless it’s an emergency, too, and let the poor bastard have a breather out back.

Shane wiggles his fingers enticingly in front of his face. “Come on, little guy.”

“It’s Ryan,” he grumbles petulantly as he accepts the offered help up.

“Come on, Ryan,” Shane amends without missing a beat once he’s on his feet. “Let’s get you out of here before you give yourself an aneurysm.”

Ryan huffs and brushes down the front of his denim jacket, dislodging the clumps of dust he’d collected while sitting on the floor. “Hey, I was doing just fine before—”

He abruptly cuts himself off as the doors to the refrigerators behind them begin to rattle ominously on their hinges. It’s quiet at first, easy to dismiss as your mind simply playing tricks on you, but quickly builds to a deafening crescendo of sharp, screeching metal as if whatever’s inside is desperate to claw its way out.

“Holy crap!” Ryan yells as he flings himself into Shane’s arms, causing them both to stagger backwards in an inelegant imitation of a first dance.

Shane looks down in surprise at the head now tucked firmly under his chin as a pleasant combination of fruity shampoo and musky aftershave tickles his nose. “They’re on a timer, bud,” he explains through a laugh.

“J-just, just, get me the fuck out of here, okay?”

* * *

The fluorescent light flickers to life above them, bathing the staff room in an uncomfortable bleached white.

Ryan looks around curiously, his gaze bouncing from the ancient coffee machine to the permanently red stained sink before finally coming to rest on the half-empty vending machine.

They’ve _tried_ to spruce up the place, with tried being the optimal word. Photos of both current and past employees litter the otherwise bare walls, while a mountain of mismatched bean bags surround the low coffee table to compensate for the lack of places to sit. It’s not much, but Shane’s come to think of it as a second home.

“It’s kind of like being at Disney and seeing Mickey take off his head,” Ryan eventually shares.

“You sound like you’re speaking from experience. Did a fat, balding man on his cigarette break little Ryan’s heart?"

Ryan gives a wheezing sort of laugh. “Dude, that’s so creepy.”

“I live to serve,” Shane replies solemnly with a hand over his heart. “Fancy a beer?”

There’s never much in their little communal fridge, what with them all agreeing to take turns going off-site and bringing back hot food for everyone else, but at least Eugene keeps it stocked up with alcohol.

“You’re allowed to drink on the job?” Ryan asks as he wanders over to the nearest bean bag and collapses down into it with a relieved sigh. 

Shane peeks over the fridge door to watch as Ryan wriggles around in an attempt to get comfortable. There’s absolutely nothing graceful about it, but he’s beginning to realise there’s probably very little about Ryan that _is_ graceful.

“Not really.”

An inelegant snort is his only response.

Grabbing a couple of chilled Bud Lights, Shane hip-checks the fridge closed before heading over to flop down next to Ryan. He pulls his legs up awkwardly towards his chest to accommodate for their length, making him look even more gangly than usual. He’s never been a huge fan of the beanbags for obvious reasons.

“Does my knight in shining armour have a name?” Ryan asks once Shane’s passed over a bottle.

“Shane.”

“Shane,” Ryan repeats slowly to get a feel for it on his tongue. Then, with a small nod as if happy with whatever conclusion he’s come to, he takes a swig of his beer.

Shane _sees_ the tension drain out of him; the pinched look around his eyes smooths out and the rigid set to his shoulders disappears into a comfortable slouch. The knot of unease that was pushing up against at his diaphragm uncurls in relief at the sight.

“So what’s a guy like you doing in a place like this?” Shane finally asks.

“A guy like me, huh?” Ryan says as he smiles down at the bottle in his hands. He slides his thumbnail under the damp label, lifting it away from the chilled glass. “I’ve always been interested in spooky shit; ghosts, demons, witchcraft, cryptids. You name it and I’ve probably been up at 3:00am researching it. But I had a pretty wild paranormal experience on the Queen Mary when I was a kid and it was… Shit. It was life changing. I promised myself there and then that once I was financially secure - good job, nice house, all that jazz - I’d try my hand at ghost hunting. I thought I could use this place as a practice run to see how much blind fucking terror I could realistically take before passing out,” he finishes with a self-deprecating laugh.

Shane hums in consideration around his beer before removing his lips from the neck with a pop. “I get your thought process, I do, but the whole point of a haunted house is to be scared. Ghost hunting on the other hand is just standing around for hours in abandoned buildings and mistaking the wind for a pained howl of the deceased. _Knowing_ something is definitively going to happen is not the same as hoping it will.”

“Hey, I didn’t say it was a _good_ idea, just that it was _an_ idea. I’m well aware the situations are nothing alike,” Ryan replies defensively, his shoulders already retreating back up towards his ears in a self-conscious hunch.

A sudden and uncharacteristic stab of panic has Shane mentally scrabble for something, _anything_ , to put him back at ease.

“The ‘Is anybody here?’ was a nice touch, though.”

He inwardly cringes.

Ryan stares at him with incomprehension, his brow pulled together in a confused little scrunch, before dawning realisation blooms across face and he buries his head in his hand with a groan. “Oh, Christ. You heard that?”

“It was very on brand,” Shane offers.

“I take it you don’t believe in ghosts, then?” Ryan mumbles into his palms.

“I don’t believe in things that aren’t real,” Shane counters simply.

Ryan lifts his head and blinks dumbly for a few seconds before eagerly shifting his beanbag closer to Shane’s. Knees knock, boots bump and beer is held high out of the way for fear of being spilt. It’s all suddenly very intimate. Back of the bus intimate. Under the _bleachers_ intimate.

“And you know for sure ghosts aren’t real?” he demands. Gone is the adorably frightened, mess of a man from before, cowering at every little noise, and in his place is a bright eyed, passionately enraged _vision_. It's sort of beautiful. _He’s_ sort of beautiful. Shane’s heart awkwardly skips a beat at the thought. “I admit, a lot of the footage and recordings floating around can be scientifically explained, but a good chunk can’t.”

Ryan stares at him, face open with expectation, as he waits for his answer.

“I just don’t find any of it compelling,” Shane dismisses.

“Compelling? How can scratches slowly appearing across someone’s back before your very eyes or, or a low, gravelly voice coming out of a small girl that just wouldn’t be physically possible for her to make be anything _but_ compelling?”

“Maybe we just don’t have the technology or knowledge to explain those things yet. We’re not all still strutting around with Walkman cassette players, dying from smallpox and thinking the earth is flat. Shit moves on. We know things now we didn’t know ten, even _five_ years ago.”

Ryan laughs in bemusement. “That’s your answer? We can’t explain it right now but might in the future? How is that anymore logical than me saying we may _never_ have a scientific explanation because there just simply isn’t one.”

Shane shrugs. “You tell me, Ryan.”

Ryan gapes, jaw slack in disbelief. “You tell m—Shut up, Shane,” he says through another laugh.

He shuffles back into his original position and Shane immediately misses the warmth. “What about you? What made you want to scare people half to death for a living?” Ryan asks once he’s settled again.

“Want is a strong word. I needed some extra cash and don’t spook easily. It was a match made in heaven.”

“More like hell,” Ryan quips with a crooked grin. “And why aren’t you dressed up, anyway?” he adds, gesturing to Shane’s jeans and red checked shirt with the neck of his beer bottle. “If you hadn’t been standing behind me in the dark like some sort of goddamn death omen I would have been all right. I mean, there isn’t exactly anything too terrifying about flannel.”

“Well first of all, doubtful. A cute little bunny could have hopped up to you and you still would have thrown your flashlight across the room. Secondly…” He trails off and leans towards Ryan as if about to tell him a secret. “So what you’re saying is you would have preferred me to jump out at you in blood splattered scrubs brandishing a meat cleaver?”

Ryan looks terrified at the mere thought, his forehead scrunched into thin little rolls from the pull of his eyebrows up towards his hairline. “Jesus, no.”

“I’ll have you know I make a _very_ convincing unethical surgeon,” Shane simpers, nose stuck up haughtily in the air.

“Unethical?” Ryan splutters. “You’re going with simply unethical? Not psychopathic? Or, or, bat-shit insane? Surgeon-you has a damn meat cleaver for fuck’s sake!”

“Hey now,” Shane admonishes lightly. “For all you know I could moonlight as a butcher.”

Ryan gives him a blank look. “A surgeon that moonlights as a butcher. A surgeon who _keeps his scrubs on_ when he works his _second job_ as a _butcher_ , that’s what you’re suggesting.”

“Maybe he’s just a bit ditzy. _Whoops, brought the mint sauce to the OR again. Silly ol’ me. Hope the patient didn’t need that Type O-!_ And all the Doctors and Nurses just shake their heads fondly.”

“Your canon for this character is buck wild, man,” Ryan admits with a bewildered shake of his head.

Shane opens his mouth to reply when a muffled buzzing sound has Ryan jolt suddenly in his seat. “Oh, shit,” he curses. Lifting up his hips, he slips his phone out from his back pocket.

“You were meant to leave that at the front desk,” Shane comments offhandedly, to which he’s rewarded with a raised middle finger.

“Hey, man,” Ryan greets into his phone. “Yeah, sorry, I got caught up chatting with one of the actors. I’ll be out in a sec.”

Ryan cocks his head to the side as he listens to the person on the other line, laughing lightly at whatever they say. “Yeah, it was…” he looks up at Shane and trails off, a soft smile pulling at his lips, “interesting.”

Feeling his face heat, Shane presses his half-empty bottle to each cheek one after the other and tries to focus his attention on the mystery stain next to the day’s rota in an attempt to tune out Ryan’s conversation. Fortunately, he doesn’t have to wait long, what with Ryan’s end of the exchange consisting mainly of uh-huhs, mmhmms, and sures, it's obvious he’s trying to wrap it up as quickly as possible.

“I forgot I was meant to meet up with friends afterwards,” Ryan explains sheepishly once finishing up the call.

“They didn’t want to come with you?”

“I, err, told them not to.”

“Well that’s no good. This sort of thing is way more fun with other people.”

Ryan looks up at him through impossibly dark lashes, his bottom lip clasped gently between his teeth. “Yeah, I’m beginning to realise that now.”

Shane clears his throat, that same heat from before still clinging to his cheeks. “I mean, what’s the point if there’s no one to call you on your bullshit?” He says, startling a loud guffaw out of Ryan.

“Oh _fuck_ you,” Ryan states firmly.

“Come on, you can use the staff exit.”

As Shane leads Ryan through the backstage area, they pass a few of his colleagues; Andrew showing off his new prop axe to Steven, Nikki with a bullet hole between her eyes, Ned lugging a bulging, blood stained sack over one shoulder. All thankfully too busy to pay attention to the fact Shane has officially, _finally_ , broken rule number one.

Ryan seems to shuffle closer to him at the sight of his friends as if purely on instinct. “How do you even sleep at night?”

“Like the dead,” Shane replies cheerfully, earning a playful jab in the ribs.

* * *

The green EXIT sign above the double doors is perhaps more jarring than the brightly lit staff room or mass of actors casually milling around as it’s represents a tangible, real-world way out from the fictional horror behind them. Ryan appears to think similarly, visibly deflating as he steps over the threshold and out into the damp alleyway behind the building. 

The familiar smell of wet pavement hangs heavy in the air, but the honk of cars and sound of loud, energetic conversation indicates the weather has done little to discourage LA’s bustling nightlife. 

Shane crosses his arms and cocks his hip out against the door frame. “So this didn’t put you off ghost hunting?”

“Nah,” Ryan admits with a shake of his head. “Don’t get me wrong, it was fucking awful, but there’s this… rush you get from it as well. And frankly, I really want to prove you wrong now, too.”

“Proving the existence of ghosts through sheer spite, huh? Now you’re speaking my language.”

Ryan chuckles. “Thanks for helping me calm down, though,” he adds softly after letting his laughter peter out. He’s looking up at him with barely veiled curiosity, head cocked slightly to the side as if he’s trying to work out a particularly difficult puzzle. “I didn’t think you were allowed to do that.”

“Oh, we’re not,” Shane shares easily.

Ryan’s eyes widen fractionally in surprise. “Huh,” he says eloquently. “You know, maybe I’ll give this another go,” he muses, a slight quirk to his lips.

“I’ll be sure to make it extra spooky just for you.”

“Great. Fantastic,” Ryan deadpans. “Now I won’t be able to sleep tonight for fear of what you’ve got in store for me.”

“Then my work here is done,” Shane says with a low, sweeping bow. He stays bent at the waist and looks up at Ryan from below, throwing him a cheeky wink.

“God, you’re an asshole,” Ryan complains but it’s with such a ridiculously fond smile that Shane is suddenly struck with an intense, ridiculous _need_ to keep this man in his life no matter what; this man who believes in ghosts, who tells him to shut up with all the familiarity of a close friend, who smiles and screams and complains with equal abandon.

Well, nothing ventured, nothing gained.

Shane wets his lips. “Could I give you my number?”

His heartbeat pulsates loudly in his ears in that way it tends to do when you’re excited, nervous or, as the case seems to be for Shane, a sickly combination of the two.

“O-oh, yeah, that’d be cool,” Ryan stutters in reply.

He fumbles his phone out of his back pocket, thumbing it unlocked as he passes it over. 

His background is of a trucker cap with ‘Bigfoot Is Real And He Tried To Eat My Ass’ blazoned across the front hanging on the end of a hook, the price tag of $20 crossed out and $10 circled beneath it instead hanging innocently off to the side. His stomach swoops. And here he was thinking he couldn't like this guy any more than he already did.

“Bet you’re glad I didn’t leave it at the front desk now,” Ryan jokes lightly as Shane dutifully taps in his number.

“Definitely,” Shane agrees, handing his phone back to him. “Shoot me a message when you’re coming so I know when to start practicing my best moves.”

Ryan stares down at the phone with a small smile, his cheeks stained a charming dusty pink.

“Deal.”

“And please wear that hat,” Shane adds as an afterthought.

Ryan laughs loudly, quiet happiness replaced by toothy amusement. 

“ _Deal_.”


End file.
